Harry Potter and the Hastily Developed Plotlines
by tempestuous
Summary: Canon Harry wakes up in the scary world of Questionably Written Fanfiction. eek!


Rating: PG-13 

Spoilers: one for GoF 

Disclaimer: As is obviously displayed by the fact that I don't live in a penthouse with a view of Central Park, I did not create, nor do I own, Harry Potter and company...nor am I making any money from this writing venture. 

**Author's Note:** I've been lurking around FanFiction.net for awhile, and like the others who write parody or MST stuff (this one is dedicated to all of you, for making me almost fall out of my chair laughing so often...humour pieces rock)...there are a lot of frequently [badly] used motifs about people's stories that bug me. Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of excellent authors here, and I've seen a lot of the plot elements I'm making fun of used successfully (like one night stands in the Prefect's Bathroom, or anything to do with Harry and Snape)...but the key is actually taking time on the plot, not just throwing things in because they're convenient. So if you see something you've used in a story here, don't take it personally--I'm not attacking anyone. That said...I hope you enjoy it. Sorry for any errors or inconsistencies, I don't have a beta-reader (any volunteers?). Here's poor, confused canon Harry waking up in the big, bad world of questionably written FanFiction. 

Feedback will be accepted gleefully and probably give me a new sense of self worth. Now wouldn't that make you feel good? 

**Harry Potter and the Hastily Developed Plotlines**

Harry awoke with a start to find a rather lot of people in his bed, most of them in various states of undress. He wriggled out from under a collection of legs and arms, and moved with his back to the headboard to sit on his pillow, which was luckily unoccupied, put on his glasses (which were on his nightstand, along with about twenty empty butterbeer bottles and double that number of condom wrappers) and surveyed the scene. His _Private Bedroom_ (one of those popular, questionably authentic perks of being a Prefect and/or Head Boy) didn't seem to be very private. A girl with pigtails he'd never seen before yawned and looked up at him. 

"What are you all doing here?" Harry asked her. The girl pulled her legs out from under someone's torso with considerable effort, and sat up to face him. 

"Harry, don't you remember? This is the aftermath of the huge drunken orgy we had to celebrate Voldermort's defeat! But you remember _me_, don't you? I'm Cyndi, the new American exchange student here at Hogwarts." She giggled and blinked at him clumsily from under her eyelashes in a way he supposed she thought was seductive. Harry heard an annoyed sigh as Hermione, who was wearing a leather bodysuit, shoved a few bodies out of the way to glare at the girl. 

"Some of us are trying to sleep, you little chit! And it's VolDEmort! V-O-L, D-E, M-O-R-T!! Honestly, these first years can't even SPEAK properly," she said, shaking her head at Harry. 

"I'm NOT a first year, I'm an **exchange student**," wailed Cyndi. No one heard her. 

"We defeated Voldemort?" Harry asked, justifiably confused. 

"Yes," Hermione began briskly, adjusting the corset-style laces down her front, "but don't ask **how**, we're not really sure. It just seemed a good deal more convenient to get him out of the way, seventh year is much more _fun_ this way. That whole issue of Evil was really a turn-off, don't you think?" 

Harry blinked at Hermione, looked down at the pigtailed girl, who was still batting her eyelashes (maybe she had something stuck in her eye), and moved on to the next question. "Why is this first-year girl in my bed? For that matter, why is everyone I've ever met in my bed?" 

"Well, they're not _all_ in the bed...some of them are on the floor. Like Ron," as she said this, Hermione somehow managed to extend a foot off the bed and kick someone on the floor. "Get UP, Ron! Oh, and as for the first years, you said they were some of the only people at school you hadn't had your way with yet...after Voldemort's demise, you became quite the playboy. You now enjoy one night stands in the Prefect's Bathroom and leering at people." 

At this, Ron's touseled red head appeared at the level of the bed. "Yeah Harry, you handsome devil...and to think, our first time, I had to teach you everything I knew about sex..." 

"You know things about sex?" Harry mused, trying not to let the phrase "our first time" sink into his head. 

"Apparently," Ron replied. "they taught me." He motioned at the twins, _and_ Bill and Charlie, who were a heap of naked freckled limbs and red hair in a corner. Percy was watching them primly from the windowsill, checking things off on a clipboard. 

A familiar, sarcastic voice issued from somewhere on the bed. "Granger, could you move your leather-bound arse off my legs? I may have to have them amputated, I think the blood flow has been irreversably restricted." 

"Oh--sorry,Draco," Hermione said, and shifted her weight, drawing muffled groans from whoever she'd just shifted her weight _onto_. Draco sat up, smoothing his sleek blonde hair and smiling at him. 

"MALFOY?!" Harry's eyes widened to the size of saucers. 

"Good morning to you too, Harry. And couldn't you call me Draco? It's much cozier, don't you think? Afer all, we've been on very...close...terms ever since you discovered that these past six years have all just been a ruse, and I was only pretending to be such a bastard to appease my cruel, Deatheater father. With some help from Dumbledore and, of course, _your_ love and support, I've been able to reconnect with my true self. I like fluffy puppies, potpourri, the Oprah Winfrey show, and making slow, sensual love on the beach." 

Harry's jaw dropped. "Did you just say 'slow, sensual love on the beach?' And _Oprah_?! Malfoy...in my bed...talking about sex and American tv? I think I'm going to be sick...if I thought I stood a fifty-fifty chance of making it to the floor without causing someone a ruptured spleen, I would be running away screaming." 

"You know Harry," Draco sniffled, his silvery-grey eyes filling with tears. "That really hurt. Here was me, thinking you were finally someone I could love and trust after my sordid past, those incedents with fucking my dad and sacrificing my kitten Muffy to Lord Voldemort...it took a lot of therapy to get through that...and then you say those hurtful things about my interests. That connection I thought we had in detention...those broom closet encounters...it's ALL OVER NOW!" With that, he sobbed and jumped off the bed, running for the door and causing a general uproar among the bodies on the floor. At one point, he looked down with a start. "Sorry Professor," he said. 

"Hmm. Ruthless disregarder of other people's spleens, that one," Ron said with a grin. 

"Yeah, don't feel bad, Harry. Oprah really is pretty awful," said Hermione, who was at the same time examining her somehow newly-straight hair for split ends. Harry, however, barely heard them, as he was stuck on "Professor." _Don't let it be Snape, don't let it be Snape, don't let it be..._

The head that rose into Harry's view had a hooked nose and disordered, greasy black hair. If Malfoy had come as a shock, this was like being struck by lightning. Harry nearly fell over. Snape stood up, squinting at Harry like someone who had a very bad hangover. And there was something oddly familiar about Snape's boxers...God, no... 

"Professor Snape, those are _my shorts_!!! Take them off!! NO, NO, KEEP THEM ON!!!" Harry yelled in disgusted dismay. 

"You let me borrow them! You thought it was cute. And 50 points from Gryffindor for yelling when I've got a banging headache," Snape added as a pouty afterthought, lighting a cigarette and somehow managing to walk over and lean on the wall. 

"I think you've hurt his feelings," said Ginny Weasley, who had materialized from somewhere and was now perched on the footboard of the bed, watching Harry as Neville (who was now skinny and graceful) nibbled at her ear. "I mean, your relationship is pretty precarious...after that huge fight you had after your illicit sex in the Potions dungeon after you bonded with each other while working as a team in the mysterious fight against Voldemort which no one will explain fully," she gasped for air, "things get pretty shaky between you guys sometimes. But I know one day, you'll come around and see that you and I are meant for each other and we have to get married so you and me and Ron and Hermione can all be one big happy family. Neville, stop it, that tickles! But besides the Snape thing, you also like Cho and went to the Bank Holiday Ball with her and she had those stunning transparent dress robes. But I just know we're soul mates and..." 

Harry cut her off. "Hasn't Cho left Hogwarts?" 

"No, I'm right here," Cho said, rolling out from under the bed. "And look around. No one leaves Hogwarts if they don't have a satisfactory replacement character." 

"Right, like me! Hi there, Harry," said Oliver Wood, who was in the corner doing unspeakable things that looked to involve broomsticks to Roger Davies. 

"Yup, we're here to stay," Cho said cheerfully. "You know I'm always up for some action, but maybe you should try Ginny after all...I mean, I am getting pretty serious about Cedric." 

"But...but, Cedric's dead," Harry said, the vivid images of what had happened in the Muggle graveyard filling his already taxed mind. 

"Exactly," Cho said with a wolfish grin, and rolled back under the bed. 

"Please...tell me Cedric Diggory's corpse is not under my bed," Harry pleaded with Ron. 

"You know I don't like to lie to you," Ron began apologetically. 

Harry screamed. 

And woke up with a start in his bed. The curtains were drawn. There was room to move his legs. His nightstand was clean. He breathed a sigh of relief. 

Then, a whisper. Ron's voice. "Harry...Harry? Are you awake? Voldemort's been defeated while you were asleep, help me carry this keg up to Hermione's _Private Bedroom_...and what is that _smell_ coming from underneath your bed?" 


End file.
